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Robin Carretti Jul 2018
This is not, a time to loosen up
Or nine to five job to give up
Just saddle up the power is in you
Five ladies cafe to dine at five and
drove_* the meter is running
(The Canadian Cup) team versus the
     Taxi Cup
He swooned you in your
Five dreamy but half heart sugars
Come on Baby bloomers
Let's see some boom!!

In your hips men will be men taking
frequent flyer trips temptation 1 2345
We need fewer digs one love teo reasons
World  345  heart flags
We don't have to cross our hearts
Perhaps tattoo heart legs no more strikes
Jumping Jack flash
What a rope in this isn't the Pope

Somehow we all get broke
To court her like your the lasso
stars cosmos hearts like Lassie
Never a change of subject how it
remains in your heart how it hit hard
to react but changed to five cards
Digging too long  lucky 777 like heaven
Heart digs

1-where?
Oh! There

No, I am here
We are always  
In-between
numbers_ I only
have 5 minutes
No I phone have a heart
Oh! where is designed for me
Those five plates

Whats in between them
      *Him

We are opening Live- Five
Strong heart to give the caring
The useful heart is never so daring
My gate* Girls are nail digging
Hugging

Or losing add +

Flirty
*****
Our community
Heftier like Jupiter
Heart to build
the gravity
A big kiss hunch
of five roses

Your getting to bloom
but only have
5 extra movie parts
The front dress mermaid tail
Your heart delicate hands
opened up your emails
I think you hit the
Jackpot

Max to the million shot
No heart of gold
Only more leaders
Scrambling and digging
your fork
Mixing those egg beaters

Five men think they know
there women
like ten
commandments
Turn to five wrong
engagements
There it goes the lucky
five arguments

A plot beating
like a hot-shot
The French Baguette
Bread 9 to 5 firecracker
Five-carat baguette
wedding band in her safe
Heart digs to five hands
Heart neck guilty as a giraffe

The cafe house had only
5 cups left  they sold you out
Only Five Bed and breakfast
stayers
Do detailed with their Ladyfingers
But need more alone time
Be on time get sweet key lime
What is real-time so sublime

That rose- paper cut- origami
Sorcerer of five he was like the
cold cuts of big Sub Salami
Japanese sword samurai
What a Geronimo Oh! no
Jericho
This wasn't a hot potato

Or Gizmo No-Go
Getting a shot for Polio
The gusto songs to the heart play
Maestro the Cosmo's
The five stars to heart his
afterglow
Like a titanic ship but heroics

Five lunatics wedding horns ******
Five two timer Mario gamers
so demonic
DOMINO'S bed five students wed
We dug deeper get-up sleepy-head
Exposed cries location set
Network U- dig cups

Something lip curved
He misplaced my lips
What did he do in exchange
More stocks and hard stone rocks
Like frying pan egg
scrambled words

Crossed heart Rapper so believing
The Fox five sticking tacky glue
His CD Rose lying pants no clue
Painful pointed shoes need R&R
     Robin's *Responsibilities
       The Heart On Replay
The deeper you dig to restart

The healthy organically grown brain
Men on Pause I truly believe nature
takes its course
but another beat to go is that so?
And if so heart digs to five
Feel the good vibe in another tribe
Five times I had to wake you up
I am the love cure reminiscing

Giving me five reasons
Our beautiful change of
heart in season

Studying the fine art heart
Referencing
Never refusing thats life
five-step to strive nothing
Fancy

Robin shoutbox she getting
her point across
Either you're the worker or loner
The heart pleaser the boss
Your heart looks good
on your dress
Whether we win or deep mess
The good heart can change to
a bad start

Recharge your heart count to five
Venus- beauty moved on like a
pathologist digging over staying alive
The hearts what digs this is not the 9-5 workers we are talkers
and long settling in heart walkers come any join me we may actually be alive did I get a live one
I. Cogida and death

At five in the afternoon.
It was exactly five in the afternoon.
A boy brought the white sheet
at five in the afternoon.
A frail of lime ready prepared
at five in the afternoon.
The rest was death, and death alone.

The wind carried away the cottonwool
at five in the afternoon.
And the oxide scattered crystal and nickel
at five in the afternoon.
Now the dove and the leopard wrestle
at five in the afternoon.
And a thigh with a desolated horn
at five in the afternoon.
The bass-string struck up
at five in the afternoon.
Arsenic bells and smoke
at five in the afternoon.
Groups of silence in the corners
at five in the afternoon.
And the bull alone with a high heart!
At five in the afternoon.
When the sweat of snow was coming
at five in the afternoon,
when the bull ring was covered with iodine
at five in the afternoon.
Death laid eggs in the wound
at five in the afternoon.
At five in the afternoon
At five o'clock in the afternoon.

A coffin on wheels is his bed
at five in the afternoon.
Bones and flutes resound in his ears
at five in the afternoon.
Now the bull was bellowing through his forehead
at five in the afternoon.
The room was iridiscent with agony
at five in the afternoon.
In the distance the gangrene now comes
at five in the afternoon.
Horn of the lily through green groins
at five in the afternoon.
The wounds were burning like suns
at five in the afternoon.
At five in the afternoon.
Ah, that fatal five in the afternoon!
It was five by all the clocks!
It was five in the shade of the afternoon!

II. The Spilled Blood

I will not see it!

Tell the moon to come,
for I do not want to see the blood
of Ignacio on the sand.

I will not see it!

The moon wide open.
Horse of still clouds,
and the grey bull ring of dreams
with willows in the barreras.

I will not see it!

Let my memory kindle!
Warm the jasmines
of such minute whiteness!

I will not see it!

The cow of the ancient world
passend har sad tongue
over a snout of blood
spilled on the sand,
and the bulls of Guisando,
partly death and partly stone,
bellowed like two centuries
sated with threading the earth.
No.
I will not see it!

Ignacio goes up the tiers
with all his death on his shoulders.
He sought for the dawn
but the dawn was no more.
He seeks for his confident profile
and the dream bewilders him.
He sought for his beautiful body
and encountered his opened blood.
Do not ask me to see it!
I do not want to hear it spurt
each time with less strength:
that spurt that illuminates
the tiers of seats, and spills
over the cordury and the leather
of a thirsty multitude.
Who shouts that I should come near!
Do not ask me to see it!

His eyes did not close
when he saw the horns near,
but the terrible mothers
lifted their heads.
And across the ranches,
an air of secret voices rose,
shouting to celestial bulls,
herdsmen of pale mist.
There was no prince in Sevilla
who could compare to him,
nor sword like his sword
nor heart so true.
Like a river of lions
was his marvellous strength,
and like a marble toroso
his firm drawn moderation.
The air of Andalusian Rome
gilded his head
where his smile was a spikenard
of wit and intelligence.
What a great torero in the ring!
What a good peasant in the sierra!
How gentle with the sheaves!
How hard with the spurs!
How tender with the dew!
How dazzling the fiesta!
How tremendous with the final
banderillas of darkness!

But now he sleeps without end.
Now the moss and the grass
open with sure fingers
the flower of his skull.
And now his blood comes out singing;
singing along marshes and meadows,
sliden on frozen horns,
faltering soulles in the mist
stoumbling over a thousand hoofs
like a long, dark, sad tongue,
to form a pool of agony
close to the starry Guadalquivir.
Oh, white wall of Spain!
Oh, black bull of sorrow!
Oh, hard blood of Ignacio!
Oh, nightingale of his veins!
No.
I will not see it!
No challice can contain it,no swallows can drink it,
no frost of light can cool it,
nor song nor deluge og white lilies,
no glass can cover mit with silver.
No.
I will not see it!

III. The Laid Out Body

Stone is a forehead where dreames grieve
without curving waters and frozen cyprseses.
Stone is a shoulder on which to bear Time
with trees formed of tears and ribbons and planets.

I have seen grey showers move towards the waves
raising their tender riddle arms,
to avoid being caught by lying stone
which loosens their limbs without soaking their blood.

For stone fathers seed and clouds,
skeleton larks and wolves of penumbra:
but yields not sounds nor crystals nor fire,
only bull rings and bull rings and more bull rings without walls.

Now, Ignacio the well born lies on the stone.
All is finished. What is happening! Contemplate his face:
death was covered him with pale sulphur
and his place on him the head of dark minotaur.

All is finshed. The rain penetrates his mouth.
The air, as if mad, leaves his sunken chest,
and Love, soaked through with tears of snow,
warms itself on the peak of the herd.

What is they saying? A stenching silence settles down.
We are here with a body laid out which fades away.
with a pure shape which had nightingales
and we see it being filled with depthless holes.

Who creases the shroud? What he says is not true!
Nobody sings here, nobody weeps in the corner,
nobody ****** the spurs, not terrifies the serpent.
Here I want nothing else but the round eyes
to see his body without a chance of rest.

Here I want to see those men of hard voice.
Those that break horses and dominate rivers;
those men of sonorous skeleton who sing
with a mouth full of sun and flint.

Here I want to see them. Before the stone.
Before this body with broken reins.
I want to know from them the way out
for this captain stripped down by death.

I want them to show me a lament like a river
which will have sweet mists and deep shores,
to take the body of Ignacio where it looses itself
without hearing the double planting of the bulls.

Loses itself in the round bull ring of the moon
which feigns in its youth a sad quiet bull,
loses itself in the night without song of fishes
and in the white thicket of frozen smoke.

I don't want to cover his face with hankerchiefs
that he may get used to the death he carries.
Go, Ignacio, feel not the hot bellowing
Sleep, fly, rest: even the sea dies!

IV:

The bull does not know you, nor the fig tree,
nor the horses, nor the ants in your own house.
The child and the afternoon do not know you
because you have died forever.

The shoulder of the stone does not know you
nor the black silk, where you are shuttered.
Your silent memory does not know you
because you have died forever.

The autumn will come with small whiet snails,
misty grapes and clustered hills,
but no one will look into your eyes
becuaase you have died forever.

Because you have died froever,
like al lthe dead of the earth,
like all the dead who are forgotten
in a heap of lifeless dogs.

Nobody knows you. No, but I sing of you.
For posterity I sing of your profile and grace.
Of the signal maturity of your understanding.
Of your appetite for death and the taste of its mouth:
of the sadness of your once valiant gaiety.

It will be a long time, if ever, before there is born
an Andalusian so true, so rich in adventure.
I sing of his elegance with words that groan,
and I remember a sad breeze through the olive trees.
I have come to succumb to a certain cliché, a cache of questions that so often seem to scuff the dance floor of adultolescents. “Who am I?” of course, a major inquiry but more importantly, “Who do I want to be?” and what am I becoming and when I become it, will it become me or will I not even want it…like a portrait of my mother…tattooed to my ***, her dear old face like some wretched rash (truly I’m not that crass). So I am scared of tomorrow and uncertain of now but everything used to be fine, so allow me to go back just a bit, to when I was, say about… FIVE.

I remember reclining on my grandmother’s couch in Hoboken, New Jersey watching star wars, I believe it was episode FIVE. Her apartment smelt of ***** and rice and beans and that reek of regret that rises from the corpses of broken dreams, and I can still see the light from the T.V. screen illuminating every corner of her living room, from the bookshelf, to the door with the welcome mat--an ironic greeter--to the picture of Jesus perched over the heater smiling down on and blessing the liars and cheaters who so often filled that room with soiled consciences and beaters. So there I was, I was FIVE, and I can clearly recall what I wanted to be, who I wanted to be in that moment: A Jedi! Oh it was a long time ago and it was far, far away, but I can still see the look on my grandmother’s face as I raced through space with my light saber broom beating Sith with a stick, protecting the room from Vader’s invaders making storm trooper stew, my weapon—my whisk; my rivals—my roux; the force—the flames, to boil the brew and the voice of my father at forty FIVE years of age telling me to quit messing around. And I said with a wave of my hand, “No, you quit messing around.” He said, “Why don’t you be a Firefighter?” I said, “no!”  “Why not a football player?” I said, “no!” “Jedi’s can’t marry. Jedi’s get lonely.” I said, “I want to be a Jedi and a Jedi only!” But like fire and fog and old Ben Kenobi, ideas like this must eventually fade.

So I grew to, I’d say about ten years old, that’s FIVE plus FIVE moving on to grade FIVE. Picture, if you will, me—the shortest kid on the little league baseball team, with grand aspirations; huge heaps of vivacity, and a strike zone too small for those poor umpires to see and I knew—I KNEW who I wanted to be: A baseball player! And an actor. A writer, crime fighter—the Jack Bower type who’s always in danger—a **** Tracy with *****; a heterosexual power ranger. Oh and an astronaut chef with a part time job as a rapper who talks about ******* and death and riches and **** holding the mic in my right and my junk in my left a protection of the kids in the crowd who might see my ******* brought about due to... back up dancers. Oh, and the president of the United States as well.

Now let’s jump to fifteen, that’s FIVE plus FIVE plus FIVE, I was a freshman in high school and still a freshman in life. But neither of these were important you see, and I rather gave up on the prospect of “me.” I traded my goals for an xbox which came with a discounted dose of apathy. ‘Cause high school is brimming with a bizarre batch of habits. When forced to attend one must endure or adapt it’s those tactless tactics those impractical practices; each pupil’s polluted with perturbing antics. So for much of that year I stayed home ignoring the mornings who tried to tell me I was alive and forgetting the spinning of the earth in its lonely slow dance to the daily tune of nine to FIVE.

I did outgrow that depressing stage. And now, here I am pushing twenty. That’s FIVE plus FIVE plus FIVE plus…it’s hard to believe but believe it I must. But these fingers that wipe away tears when I cry and fight, call for peace, encourage, deride, make decisions, rock hard, and swat away flies, shake hands, ask questions, and give high FIVES are so ******* familiar. So you see, I have put a great deal of thought into this and I think what I want to be is… FIVE.

Don’t you remember? When wherever you lived was the tip of the world, every rock you found was a glimmering pearl, and every face pointed at you grinned with jealous geniality. When Santa Clause, the Easter Bunny, Jesus Christ, and easy money all had proper places in reality. When bunk beds were marvels standing miles from the floor and the little things were the greatest things on earth, and “stupid” was a swear word, each trip was an adventure, and every pocket was a candy cluttered purse. Grass was green not “getting too long to maintain” and skies were blue not “looking like they might bring rain” There was no need to feign a demeanor, there were no chains. You were unbound. And pain was a temporary hiatus from satisfaction…not the other way around. Everyone loved you, whether they loved you or not. No one judged you for your blindingly ignorant smile. You were pancakes and balloons and Saturday morning cartoons and guilt-free, care-free love—you were a child.

I don’t want to go back to that time in my life. I have no desire to swap my mind for comfortable bliss. What I want is to close my eyes for just FIVE seconds and when I open them again, the world will be new.
Liselotta Jahnke Apr 2017
the snow has always been deep.
i find myself wondering what it would be like to fall from the sky and cover dead people five five five feet in dirt
what would it be like?
to fall on the rooftops of happy parents, happy children, happy happy happy.
happy is a pile of leaves in my mind that i use when i need a reminder of how people want me to act.
but it's winter now and it's getting harder to find that pile of leaves so i settle on displaying an extravagant and artistic blend of emotionlessness.
i tell myself i can do it i can do it i can do it but the hearing test came back and i will always hear you will fail fail fail die
maybe, if you're lucky, soon, but it's really not your choice unless you want it to be and growing older makes you want it to be.
you're slower now, you've grown older, it's always winter and the hearing aids are too expensive.
your life is a house and the snow upon its rooftop muffles the voices of people that can help, people that might try to help.
the wooden walls smell like dead trees and there is no furniture in this home but four ceiling lights.
you've spent your days staring at them and the cold has already broken three but you're not worried.
it's darker now and you're not sure why but you feel obligated to repeat your name until it sounds like anything but your name because having the same name as someone else has always bothered you.
the pile of leaves is still lost under the snow and it's getting harder now to say your name and you don't know why so you curl up in a ball and think of dead bodies buried five five five feet deep.
you freeze.
the fourth light breaks into tiny shards reminding you that your vocal cords haven't been used since thursday.
you can't remember how many lights there used to be.
did you know that you could just sleep?
did you know?
you we're always buried five five five feet deep.
Ashwin Kumar May 8
Forty five dark days
Forty five desolate days
Forty five depressing days
With every passing hour
I go from depressed to hopeful
From hopeful to furious
And back to depressed
The vicious circle goes on and on
With no end in sight

Forty five dark days
Forty five desolate days
Forty five depressing days
As the first lockdown is extended
The sense of despair grows stronger
My temper grows shorter
My insecurities, buried till then
In the dark recesses of my mind
Suddenly rise like a tsunami
And flood my brain and heart
Leaving a massive trail of dead cells in their wake

Forty five dark days
Forty five desolate days
Forty five depressing days
As the second lockdown is extended
I become increasingly on edge
Every little frustration comes to the fore
Whether it be the delayed salaries
Or being cooped up in a small house
With five family members
And thus having to endure the sheer cacophony
Of the Mahabharat and Ramayan
Blaring on the TV every day
Or simply the torrid climate of Chennai

Forty five dark days
Forty five desolate days
Forty five depressing days
How long will this go on?
I have been patient till now
But at some stage, I am bound to snap
And then you will find
That when the going gets tough
The tough get going
However, I get dangerous
So, think carefully, dear Prime Minister
Before you announce another nationwide lockdown
Unless you want to land yourself in quarantine
My 3rd lockdown poem!!
Ralph E Peck Dec 2013
Simone was among the smallest of the small, a flutist of the smallest size,
Who carried herself well, and seemed to be taller than she was, at least in her mind,
Making her among the tallest, among those who could strut their stuff across the marching field.
She was proud, even on these practice days, when the dew of morning would
Make the practice areas so wet, and make her roll her pants up to just below her knees,
And her shoes would be soaked before it was over, and her heart would melt
Inside the flute, so big it seemed, compared to her hundred pounds.

Simone left little to chance, her eyes were forward, yet they moved quickly
From side to side, always checking her position on the field, and her
Position among those with her, and her position in what she perceived to be
The best among them.

One, two, three, four, five, six.  Repeat. One, two, three, four, five, six.  Six to five
They marched, long strident steps for the five foot of her, almost as if she was
Carrying the length of the world upon her shoulders. Her back was straight, her head
High up, toward the southern sky that held not a cloud, and the footsteps of those
Around her, the Flutist, till the turn, then the French horns crossing her path,
And she listened for the cue among them, and realized they carried their instrument
But there was nothing to be heard, as their mouths looked as though they played
Yet only the mouth pieces knew, it was but a scam of time.

She was wrapped in the image, that being here, on this field of one hundred twenty,
There was a leader, if you thought of it, too lead them in their playing,
But the real leader was her, briskly marching; head up, down the field, and hearing
The slides of the trombones, bam bammer, bam bam, up and down, as they never looked,
But kept time, her flute so bright and cheery, and so lost in the mornings lift.
One, two, three, four, five, six.  Six steps to five, six steps to five, six steps to five.  
Other bands, no all bands, marched eight to five, which would seems so much more
Comfortable to march, smaller steps, smaller people, across the field so major in its size
But her band, marched six steps to five, making for cleaner, tighter lines.

Ta da, daaa da, tee dee daa dumple deed ah daa, the trumpets and cornets rang out, loud
And seemingly obnoxious, in their tee dahs and tee daaaas, making for a crashing sound
Of thuno didity thump thump as the drummers passed, all music ringing loose from her head,
And the crashing sound of the drum, and the Thump, Thump, Thump, Thump of the bass,
Keeping time, keeping rhythm, of the John Phillips Sousa march across the field.
Her feet kept time, her flute braced up to her lips, her breath pouring forth,
Blending in perfect time, to make the most pleasant noise, her breath taken in, and her breath out
She flowed with the drums, the trombones, the trumpets, and heard the bass attempts
To play of the baritones, God’s most beautiful instrument, and the caterwauling
Of the clarinets, tooting and playing and attempting to play, some brand of music,
Some portion of a song that must have been heard long ago, that seemed to have
Nothing at all in common with the song at hand, but each looking down to trace
Their finger patterns, to hear the music as it played.

Simone’s flute, for all it was worth in her small tiny hands, in her small tiny arms,
Across this major large field, with these bodies next to hers, with the blats and sickles,
The very intent of each one to make its noise across at one another, seemed
To be a cacophony of sound, a completeness of nothing, and mess of a wreck of instruments.

Then there was the noise.   A complete and un-fractured belt of wonderful musical sound
As it marched toward her, as it seemed to assault, but to pay compliments to her,
As it seemed to worship the very wet, damp ground, upon which she walked, she felt something
In her body, a stirring, a feeling, her stomach turning in a good way, as her eyes lifted
She saw him, marching, One, Two, Three, Four, Five, Six times across the field,
One step was starting on the yard line, the last touching the yard line, five yards later.

The sousaphone.  This mass of brass, wrapped three times at the valves, turned
Around his neck, ending in a massive, shiny, bell of a horn, bigger around than her body
Bigger than a freight train coming down the track at her, she saw him.  Felt him.
Could feel the cool timber of his breath and voice and song, played so well upon
That instrument.  He was over six feet tall, no six feet six, and that horn, dear god,
Was two feet and several inches across the bell, putting him eight feet tall,
Compared to her five feet, and her fragile weight, and the mass before her.  That sounded,
So beautiful.  So real, such a part of it all, its tone, its timber, its reality was there and Anthony,
Playing it with intensity, playing it so strong, its notes almost removing her light little
Shoes from the field.  She thought she could float, she thought for a moment, that she
Had died and was no longer walking, but floating across the field.

Boom. Boom. Boom. Down. The. Scale. Up. The. Scale. Boom. Boom. Boom. Anthony played the music,
And marched, keeping time, and handling the music well……and he heard her soft little notes
This miniature toy before him, this small flutist playing her trills, her melody, her principle
Piece so well, so that it sneaked in and captured his heart in a moment, his breath short,
His feeling of being the only person in the band, suddenly expanded to two, took him hard.

And they played their music, their parts, and the rest of the band tried to keep up.

— The End —